


Given the Terms

by Lassarina



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Bondage, Multi, Overstimulation, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balthier and Al-Cid make a bet regarding Ashe and something about which she says she has never had quite enough; she is likely to find that it is best to be wise with one's wishes, for they might be granted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Given the Terms

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Seventhe for the beta, and to Owlmoose for lodging this ship in my head to start with.

"Even I must admit," Balthier says, waving his glass of rum in an expansive gesture, "that on rare occasions it is possible to have too much of a good thing."

"You have never found such a thing," Ashe says with confidence, perhaps overly fueled by the wine she has drunk.

Al-Cid laughs. "Better to ask, perhaps," he says, "what you have found that you cannot have enough of."

There is an odd and prickling silence, as they each consider the question. Ashe knows her own answer, but she wonders if she dares speak it. She is not ashamed, but she wonders if they will consider it an insult.

She can see from their expressions that they, too, have thought of their answers, and they are all silent and wary of speaking them aloud. It is a strange and tenuous thing, this sharing between them; though they have had this arrangement for nigh three years, still there is sometimes the sense that it is fragile and new and might snap under the weight of the wrong word. Part of it, she knows, is her own nature; she is harsh and hard and makes no effort to smooth their rougher edges; and part of it is the competition that ever runs between them, sometimes subtle and sometimes not.

That competition shows itself again now, when Balthier's booted foot prods Al-Cid's ankle. "It was your suggestion," he says with a smile thin and sharp as her first real blade. "Therefore it follows that you should go first."

Al-Cid winces and stares at his whiskey as though an answer lies hidden in the liquid. Perhaps it does. He holds himself as though he expects that blade-smile to become a blade in truth and lay bare his _self,_ curled in protectively. "Though at the moment it seems incomprehensible," he says, the words too slow and reluctant, "I find I miss this closeness, when it is not possible." He gestures slightly with his free hand, encompassing the three of them curled or sprawled, as their tastes dictate, on a grouping of sofas in Ashe's suite. "You are a pest of hell, Balthier, but nonetheless, I...miss this."

Balthier's smile was fading during Al-Cid's comment, and now he is serious and as reluctant; perhaps he thought Al-Cid would not take his challenge, and he might be spared having to admit his own desire. He even swings his feet down off the sofa so that he is not sprawled across its entirety and sits with elbows braced atop his knees, staring into his glass. "In a similar vein," he says in a tone that lacks its usual wry edge, and that makes Ashe's heart thump painfully in her chest, "I find that we have little time to be only ourselves—close in terms of body as well as—" He stutters, swears in Garif, and the last word comes out thin and cracked and unwilling. "—Heart."

Her heart is beating too fast when they both turn their gazes upon her; she swallows half her glass of wine in a gulp and when it burns its way down to her stomach, she wishes she hadn't. She can scarcely cheapen their confessions by giving a less truthful one in turn, but hers sounds so petty.

"Ashe?" Al-Cid's prompting is gentler than Balthier's would have been.

She takes another swallow of wine to moisten her throat, suddenly dry. "I—suppose I am selfish," she admits, "for in addition to what you have said—" She has to stop. She can already feel herself blushing. She hates herself for the weakness.

Al-Cid's foot brushes her leg, a soothing gesture; he is wise enough not to move to her couch or try a more intimate touch. Instead of challenging her, Balthier sits back, or rather sprawls; she reads it as his form of comfort.

She takes refuge in carefully crafted language. "In physical terms," she says, and sees the bright flash of interest in both their eyes before they school their expressions to patience again, "I have never found myself unable to continue. Which is not to say," she hastens to add, "that I have been unsatisfied."

Balthier looks entirely too pleased with himself. "An interesting thing to know," he muses, but he takes the topic no further, and instead starts to bait Al-Cid again. The tension in the room recedes to a more manageable level, but they can all hear the echoes of their confessions hanging in the air.

Weeks go by with no mention of that conversation, though Ashe takes greater care to clear her schedule when they are all three in Rabanastre, and Al-Cid sometimes will pull both of them along with him to bed and collapse into a pile of entangled bodies, not sexual, but soothing touches and a comfortable silence that does not struggle for dominance. It is strange and lovely at once.

She is just returning from a long and frustrating meeting with the Archadian ambassador—she has every intention of sending Larsa a sharply-worded missive indicating that she will no longer meet with this man, who offered her a position of _honor_ as his mistress back in Archades, and she will not stomach the insult (and in fact she had her guards throw him out physically)—when she hears their voices, low and conspiratorial, and though she knows it is rude she stops to listen.

"I think Lady Ashe is rather more sturdy than you are giving her credit for," Balthier drawls. "Would you care to make it a wager?"

"What terms?" Al-Cid sounds both wary and interested, a combination that is all too common when dealing with the sky pirate.

She can _hear_ Balthier's grin in his voice. "Why, we offer her what she asked for, and see if she can outlast us. You say she cannot; I say she can. The terms..." He considers. "Should I win, no retaliation from Rozarria for any one ship I capture; I give you my word in advance it shall not be a military vessel, and I shall take pains not to kill any passengers. It's messy and uncouth."

Al-Cid is silent for a moment. "Should I win," he says at last, "you will capture any one ship of my choosing; I shall not ask you to prey upon friends." Ashe knows, and she knows that Balthier knows, that by "friends" he means not personal friends of Balthier's but ships of nations that would retaliate in a very messy fashion should he be caught.

She cannot decide if she is offended or amused at this little bit of bargaining.

"Done," Balthier says, and she judges it the proper moment to join them.

They both look up when she enters the room, and she is unsure if she is pleased or wary that they can go from making bets in secret to smiling and greeting her as though nothing is amiss.

"Ashe," Balthier says, her name bare of title as it ever is with him save when she is in court or he wishes to bait her with the wrong one. "We would propose something."

"You both?" she says, putting on her best diplomatic face.

"We both," Al-Cid says, though there is that little edge that ever accompanies agreement between him and Balthier. "A few weeks ago, you made a certain statement regarding our private time."

She has known this was coming since she heard the terms of their bet, and the tiny little flutter of excitement that settles low in her body is welcome. "Did I?" she says, with studied indifference. They will see right through it. She expects them to do so.

"We would like to accept your challenge," Balthier says, and there is a steel underlying his voice. She guesses that he has planned this since she said it.

"You have a free evening tonight," Al-Cid continues, and she realizes they _have_ been planning this. "We propose a short jaunt in Your Majesty's personal airship, that you might feel free to act as you wish with none save us to see."

She will not have to keep her voice down; she need not wonder if anyone will see her acting immodestly. That little flutter becomes an insistent tug of desire.

"All you can handle," Balthier says, his voice going low and deep as it does in bed, "until you ask us to stop."

She meets his eyes, and knows her mask is imperfect. It matters not. "Interesting terms," she says, and cannot resist the challenge. "Are you so sure, then, that you will outlast me?"

They both smile, and yes, this does sound like an excellent plan. "Very well, then," she says. "I beg but a moment's indulgence to acquire more appropriate clothing."

"Well," Al-Cid says, "I thought we might eat first." That elicits laughter from all of them, and some of the simmering tension eases.

They do, and then she changes—she chooses her clothes deliberately, the simplest of dresses, and sends her maid away so she can dress herself and not scandalize the girl by declining the usual undergarments. They meet her in the palace aerodrome, and it is to no one's surprise that Balthier sends away her official pilot and takes the controls himself. He turns east, past the Estersand, to one of the tiny islands just off her coast. Without asking, he pilots to the one that she claimed as a retreat, and anchors the airship on the lee side of the island where the wind will not buffet them much.

The humming of the airship engines dies away to near-silence, and Ashe swallows hard. Now would be the time to beg off if she desires it. She doesn't desire it, and she doesn't back down, but she has a moment of fluttering panic at what she may have begun.

Al-Cid is sprawled across two seats, toying with his sunglasses. Ashe finds herself, as she often did during the flight, watching his hands in fascination. What they do here is nothing new; they have been all three in a bed many times ere now. Yet there is _more_ here: the isolation, the naked gauntlet she so carelessly cast down flung back in her own face, the almost tangible tension that crackles around both of them—and around herself.

Balthier turns in the pilot's seat and his expression is unwontedly serious. "One thing, princess, before we begin," he says, and she is almost too distracted by his gravity to bristle at the improper title. "I want you to choose a word that will stop this thing entirely, should you speak it—and it will be something you will speak only when you want to stop."

"If," she snaps, and he smiles and inclines his head.

"If," he agrees.

She bites her tongue on her first thought—nethicite, to rub his pride as badly as he has rubbed hers—but that is not truly her desire, and she thinks better it be something simple. "Rose," she says instead, thinking of the rare Archadian rosebush that he and Al-Cid conspired to plant in her garden at outrageous expense, one they had convinced a botanist to breed only for her.

"Lovely beyond words, yet possessed of dangerous thorns," Al-Cid muses. "It suits you."

She holds her tongue with great effort.

Balthier nods. "We are agreed, then—should Ashe say 'rose,' everything ceases."

She wonders at this sudden penchant for negotiation and contract—he has never evinced it before—but at war now with the sinking feeling of nervousness is a softer, warmer flutter that centers lower in her body.

"Rose," Al-Cid repeats dutifully, and as seriously.

Balthier rises from the pilot's chair and makes her a sweeping bow, gesturing toward the aft cabins. "Shall we, then?" he says.

She stands, keeping her head held high, and precedes them with slow, even steps to give herself time to settle her racing pulse. This airship is smaller than the _Strahl,_ intended for very little cargo and few passengers, but it is outfitted with a generously furnished cabin. She walks halfway to the bed and then turns to face them with defiance; she will see this through, for she gave her word, but she will not make it easy.

She ignores the tiny voice in her mind that wishes to remind her that they will not either.

She is not surprised that it is Balthier that moves first, though given the terms, she _is_ surprised that his hands against her face are gentle when he bends to kiss her. His fingertips slide into her hair, and the kiss is as gentle as the touch, warm and melting and slow. She shivers a little when Al-Cid's hands settle on her shoulders and his thumbs start to make tiny circles at the base of her neck; that has ever been a weakness of hers. The fluttery little shivers race down her spine to pool warm between her legs, especially when his lips brush the back of her neck.

They seem content to linger on slow kisses and touches soft as a breath, and impatience prickles bright. She reaches up to unfasten Balthier's shirt, and Al-Cid's arm comes around her firmly, pinning her own arms to her sides. "Shhhh," he murmurs against her ear. "This is for you, remember?"

The concept is patently absurd—it does take two, after all, or in this case three—and she shows her disdain by sliding her hands instead along the front of Balthier's trousers until she can cup his cock through the leather. His sharply indrawn breath is satisfying until Al-Cid leaves off drawing little circles on her skin and uses both hands to grasp her wrists, keeping them at her side firmly, but gently. His kisses move from the back of her neck to her ear, and she cannot help the breathy little sound she makes when he closes his teeth delicately on her earlobe and tugs.

Balthier trails his fingertips down over her face to rest lightly on her collarbones, just above the front lacing of her bodice. He lingers there, his kiss finally deepening with the softest touch of teeth against her lower lip, not even enough to sting, just a difference in texture. She can already feel her pulse beating insistently where she most wants to be touched, and she wonders if they plan to try to drive her to acquiescence from sheer impatience.

When he finally unties the bodice and draws it aside with excruciating patience, even the rasp of fabric on her nipples makes her clench her teeth to hold back the moan that wants to rise to her throat. Al-Cid's grip on her hands has not wavered, despite her occasional attempts to test it, and his thumbs are tracing idle patterns on the sensitive inside of her wrists. They let the fabric hang limply from her arms, which Balthier takes over holding, while Al-Cid's hands slide up her ribs to circle slowly around her breasts. She nips sharply at Balthier's lower lip to make her point, and he chuckles, a sound she feels in the faint vibration of his mouth on hers. Everything seems at once to be in sharp clarity and drawn in dreamy watercolors; it would be easy to just let herself drift on the pleasure of their hands and their lips.

She has rarely been inclined to take the easy route.

Balthier traces her lips slowly with his tongue and finally, finally teases his way between them—not that it takes much, for she is eager—for a deep and lingering kiss. She leans into it, pulling ineffectually at his grip on her wrists—she wants to touch, to feel his skin under her hands, and it is driving her half mad that she can do nothing but _feel._ When Al-Cid finally touches her nipples, she whimpers in relief and frustration mixed. She aches to be touched more, harder, to break this slow coiling tension that simply builds.

"Patience," Al-Cid whispers, and his breath ghosts across her ear and makes her shudder at the corresponding tug between her legs. He rewards her with one firm touch, a light tug on both nipples at once, and her knees almost buckle.

Balthier leans closer to her, and slowly he and Al-Cid guide her across the room in the direction of the bed, neither pausing in the slow and teasing caresses. Her clothing is eased off inches at a time, traced by tender kisses that never go quite where she wants them, and she finds herself sprawled loosely on the bed, with Balthier snuggled against her back and playing idly with her breasts while Al-Cid starts at her ankles and lavishes kisses up the inside of her legs with agonizing slowness. Neither of them has veered near her mound, and she finds herself whimpering with each new kiss and touch. She laces her hands into Al-Cid's hair and tugs, trying to bring him higher than the middle of her thigh where he seems determined to cover each inch of skin multiple times, but he resists, his laugh warm and tickling against her skin.

When finally he traces his tongue along the join between her hip and thigh, she is already soaking wet; it seems to take eons more for him to kiss his way over and trace his tongue the length of her slit. He is patient here as he was before, teasing his way in slowly, until the tip of his tongue just brushes against her nub, and she actually does whimper this time. Balthier laughs and nips sharply at her ear, a sudden sting that he soothes with his tongue while his fingers pluck at her nipples. Al-Cid finally settles between her legs, his tongue working in slow, patient strokes that make her hips jerk with every motion. She is so aroused that every touch feels like it might be the one to send her over the edge, but it doesn't happen, spinning out into a long and shuddering tease. Balthier's hands are everywhere now, always gentle and careful when she would give nearly anything for a touch hard enough to make her come.

When Al-Cid stops, she could weep. He presses soft kisses against her thighs and stands, leaving her spread across the bed shuddering with unfulfilled desire, and Balthier slides out from behind her; for the first time since they entered the cabin, she is not being touched.

They take their time trading places, and Balthier lingers over the process, beginning again with soft kisses near her ankles while Al-Cid nibbles tenderly at her neck. She knows the sound she makes when Balthier finally presses his tongue against her in earnest is a sob, and she is past caring. She twines her hands into his hair and pulls, pressing him harder against her and twisting her hips to get the right pressure. He grips her hips firmly and shoves her back down against the bed, the first sign of their usual combative sex that he has shown tonight, and keeps up the slow patient torment. She can feel it building, can feel how even the sharp scrape of Al-Cid's teeth against her ear fades when Balthier focuses in and rubs his tongue patiently and evenly over just the right spot, and finally, _finally_ everything comes apart in a burst of pleasure that leaves her shaking and gasping and limp between them.

She isn't expecting to be suddenly hauled up and flipped over so that she is on her hands and knees, still too shaky to hold herself up in the aftermath of orgasm, and she gasps in shock when Balthier thrusts into her hard and fast. Al-Cid, too, moves so that he is kneeling before her, and pulls one of her arms out from under her, bending it up behind her back while his hand supports her chest. Her other arm wobbles, and Balthier has not stopped moving.

"What—" she gasps.

"You asked for pleasure, princess," Balthier says, and thrusts again, all the way in. She can't help the little cry that escapes her. "You're getting it."

She can barely balance, with one hand behind her back and the way Balthier's movements keep pressing her forward; he is gripping her hips to give himself some resistance, because she cannot get enough balance to provide her own. Al-Cid's free hand grasps her chin and tilts her head up, and his cock brushes against her lips. She opens her mouth almost automatically to take him in, and this is something they have never done before. She feels caught between them, impossibly stretched simply because they are _both_ pressing into her, and she is still oversensitive and throbbing. They give her no respite, instead driving her hard for their own means, and she can only let it happen; she has to give all of her attention to keeping herself braced. Al-Cid lets go of her chin and grips her shoulder; it helps a little, but not much.

She feels Balthier's hand sliding up her back, and then he laces his hand into her hair and pulls hard, almost causing her to choke as he pulls her head back so that she has to look up into Al-Cid's face. It is a study in concentration, his eyes dilated and his lips parted as he moves against her mouth. She tries to use her tongue, to curl little caresses around him, and he groans, then looks over her head at Balthier. Balthier stops holding her hips and slides his hand around the front of her hips to press between her legs; the sudden burst of pleasure distracts her utterly and she struggles to keep her mouth open enough for Al-Cid.

"This is for you," Al-Cid says again, and the words strike her as ominous, but she cannot pay them too much heed with this much sensation driving her. Al-Cid thrusts roughly into her mouth, and she almost chokes. Balthier's fingers on her nub are as insistent as his thrusts, and she cannot even writhe like this, for if she loses her balance then Al-Cid's iron grip on her wrist will do her shoulder no favors. She can feel the tension starting to build, as Balthier hits an angle that makes her scream, muffled though it is. Al-Cid is relentless, drawing back only when she is so close to the edge that she can feel it starting. He lets go her arm and holds up her shoulders while she screams, shuddering. Even before the first shock wears off, he lifts her and shoves her back toward Balthier, lavishing a trail of biting kisses down her collarbones to her breasts and then down over her stomach to settle between her legs.

He offers her the slight mercy of barely touching her with his tongue, exploring her lower lips while Balthier suckles on her nipples, but even that slight touch is nearly too much. She is whimpering with every breath now, even as Balthier teases her mouth open with kisses and then with his cock. He is gentler with her mouth than Al-Cid, despite his haste, and it is almost a respite, even when his movements become rough and she tastes his bitterness on the back of her tongue, because Al-Cid is still only tracing broad circles around her nub.

That lasts only as long as it takes Balthier to move off her, though, and then she finds Al-Cid sucking hard, his tongue working to trap her throbbing flesh between his lips and his tongue, rubbing in a brutally even rhythm that makes her hips jerk violently with every movement of his tongue. He puts his hands on her thighs and holds them open, pinning her to the bed open and exposed, and uses his tongue ruthlessly. She grabs for his hair, almost sure she wants to pull him away because it's _so much,_ overwhelming everything, and finds Balthier grabbing her arms and pulling them behind her back, gripping her wrists firmly in one hand. His other hand presses down on her chest, holding her tight against him so that she cannot move, and it is unbearable.

Her safeword is on the tip of her tongue, but she does not want to concede the issue, and instead she tries to think past the sensation of every nerve being plucked like a string. It is to no avail. She cannot tear her attention away from Al-Cid's tongue, from the even pressure that should be enough to make her come—and perhaps end this—but the angle is just slightly off. She is suspended in this state, overwhelmed and gasping and struggling against Balthier's hands. She can feel the muscles in her thighs shaking, as they do before she comes, but she can't get there.

"Had enough, princess?" Balthier asks her, his voice low and rough.

She grits her teeth and forces the word out. "No."

"Good," he says, and Al-Cid moves just a little, as though he was only waiting for that confirmation, and if she thought she was overwhelmed before it is nothing to now, when she feels like she could come apart at the seams. Her entire body arches up into their hands, pinning her down, and Al-Cid _doesn't stop,_ keeps her pinned to the bed and keeps going even while she's coming.

She can't stand this. She is pleading, any words except _rose,_ for that she will not say, cannot say, and that is the only thought left to her: she will not yield. She writhes and she screams and she pleads, and they hold her down and drive her harder until she comes again.

Al-Cid stops, then, and she sobs in relief, but it is short-lived. Even as Balthier is nipping at her ear, teasing her into new shudders—she would have thought it impossible—with clever touches of his tongue, Al-Cid slides up and _into her_ and she is so sensitive now, so wrung out and desperately overwhelmed, that he feels larger than he can possibly be. She is stretched out, stretched to her limits, and he presses forward slowly.

She can endure it only because he is so slow; every tiny movement seems to reverberate through her entire body. Balthier grips her hands behind her back hard enough to hurt, yet the fingertips of his free hand on her nipples are incongruously gentle, a slow and easy tease like at the beginning of the night. The contrast is disorienting.

She forces her chin up and stares at Al-Cid with all the challenge she can muster. He can coax the tiny sobbing noises that are all she has left from her throat, but she will not permit him to force her capitulation.

He keeps moving, so slow and even, and she squirms, trying to find a position that will leave her feeling less exposed, less raw and undone. He grabs her leg and pulls her off-balance so that she has nothing to brace against, and then shifts himself so that every slow thrust is an impossibly drawn-out caress against that spot inside her that makes everything go dim when he touches it.

She cannot do this.

Even as she opens her mouth to concede defeat, as her lips start to shape the word, Balthier's hand slides down between them and rubs against her at exactly the right angle, and her entire body twists tight and clenches and then she is screaming incoherently and cannot form the words. Al-Cid moves faster, short brutal thrusts that rock her back into Balthier, and she is screaming and the world goes gray around the edges, and then he too reaches his finish and collapses forward onto her. She cannot move. She can barely breathe.

She has to say it.

"Enough," Al-Cid mumbles against her breast. "Enough. You have made your point."

"And here I thought we were just getting started," Balthier says, but there is no true note of complaint in his voice. He does kick Al-Cid in the thigh, though. "At least be useful and bring a blanket up here. The princess will be cold."

Ashe is grateful for the consideration, though she would choke on the words before she would say them. She cannot move, and she _is_ cold, and her muscles won't stop trembling. Al-Cid drags himself off her and drags up enough blankets to outfit half of Paramina. She bites her tongue to hold back the whimper when the blanket brushes against her skin; she can scarcely stand the touch of even this soft fabric.

Balthier mumbles soothing nothings against her ear, his arm heavy over her. She is not tired, but she cannot seem to bring her mind to heel; it drifts like clouds over the Dalmascan desert. At length she does sleep, snuggled between them both.

She is the first to wake in the morning, and the discomfort when she shifts sleepily and fabric rasps over her skin brings the previous night rushing back into her memory, bold and bright. She can scarcely credit that she outlasted either of them, for they were determined to see that she could not—

Save that she remembers Balthier's hand driving her past the point of speech right when she had to concede defeat, and she recalls that it was he who goaded Al-Cid into the wager.

The pirate in question stirs, his hand brushing an idle caress over her stomach, and presses a sleepy kiss against the back of her shoulder. "Good morning," he murmurs. "Ready for round two?"

"Not today," she says, and she can hear that her voice is hoarse from all the screaming she barely remembers doing. It was wisely chosen on his part to see them all far removed from the palace and her guards; even the thought of having to explain this to an anxious cadre of armed men summoned by her screams makes her cringe. She will not tell him so.

Al-Cid laughs. "Tomorrow, then," he says, and gets up to head for the washroom.

When he is gone, and the door securely shut so that he will not hear her, she turns to look at Balthier. "You did this on purpose, pirate."

"Of course I did," he says, and brushes strands of her hair out of her face with surprising tenderness.

"Why?" It is not that she minds—overmuch—but she is desperately curious what motivated him.

He grins. "First, because it seemed as good a way as any to put Al-Cid in his place," he says. He lowers his voice, both in volume and in pitch, and the low rumble would pique her physical interest did she not feel utterly incapable of such. "Second—even should I lose the bet, I have won, have I not? I get something I have wanted for some time: seeing you wrung out with pleasure and desire, unable to do anything but feel what we would do to you."

It is subtler than she would have expected, and in truth she cannot find fault with the results. "As you say, pirate," she says, but no more, for that would make him insufferable.

Al-Cid returns, and sits on the edge of the bed. "I think," he says, "that I should like to try that again sometime, in all seriousness."

She need not look behind her to know that Balthier is wearing the pirate's grin he adopts when he is victorious. "I agree," he says.

"I would not object," Ashe says, "but for today, there is more to be done. We should return."

Balthier caresses her cheek. "As you wish," he says politely.

But before he gets out of bed, he leans close enough that his breath tickles her ear when he speaks. "Next time," he murmurs, "I will stick more closely to the terms, and shall not stop until you give the word."

Ashe almost wishes that statement did not make the prospect more enticing.


End file.
